


shaky hands

by transzoemurphy



Category: Criminal Minds (US TV)
Genre: Childhood Sexual Abuse, Coping, Dissociation, Flashbacks, POV Derek, Panic Attack, Shaky Hands, Whumptober, crossposted from tumblr, past CSA, physical flashbacks, referenced attempted suicide, whumptober no. 1
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-02
Updated: 2019-10-02
Packaged: 2020-11-15 06:23:11
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,009
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20861684
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/transzoemurphy/pseuds/transzoemurphy
Summary: No matter what horrible things he saw on a day to day basis, this had happened to him. This wasn’t something he could just step away from and profile. This was a part of him, intrinsically, it was something that had been ongoing throughout the time his worldview was most malleable. His trauma was his, it was so deeply buried and personal and it affected him every time he thought about it and even when it didn’t.





	shaky hands

When faced with the barrel of a gun, Derek Morgan could remain completely calm. When faced with something unimportant to anyone else: words, phrases, the feeling of hands on his skin that never went away— the same could almost be said, except for one thing: his hands. His hands would shake like leaves in the autumn wind, and he’d wipe his palms on his pants despite them not being sweaty, because they were once, when he was an awkward acne-ridden 12 year old.

Though he was now 35, there would always be a piece of him that was still that acne-ridden 12 year old. His therapist had told him to let his 12 year old self know it was okay to be afraid, that he wasn’t a coward or a hypocrite for not telling anyone, for freezing up, for not saying no. At first, he’d thought it was bullshit — talking to your younger self, really? 

But then he’d tried it. He’d been shaking in his hotel room and pulled out a journal and wrote a letter to 12 year old Derek. As he did this, emotions he hadn’t felt since he was a teenager began to resurface, emotions he hadn’t _let_ himself feel in over twenty years.

But now, he thought he was stronger. Now, he was more able to cope with what had happened. It wasn’t something anyone was able to fully process, but having seen these types of crimes again and again in his type of work, he thought it would be “just another day at the office” kind of horrific.

It was a fully different kind of horrific. Because no matter what horrible things he saw on a day to day basis, this had happened to him. This wasn’t something he could just step away from and profile. This was a part of him, intrinsically, it was something that had been ongoing throughout the time his worldview was most malleable. His trauma was _his_, it was so deeply buried and personal and it affected him every time he thought about it and even when it didn’t.

So, all things considered, the fact that his only physical response to the memories was shaky hands should have been a good sign.

However, for someone in his job, shaky hands was too much.

Derek knew that when he dissociated, his hands would stop shaking. He’d become a statue, his body going through its daily routine without him there; a plane on autopilot. This couldn’t continue forever, though, eventually he had to snap himself out of it and continue on with his day.

Spencer had caught him like this, once, coming up to him at the coffee bar at the BAU headquarters. 

"Morgan," he'd said, "are you okay?"

Morgan had nodded. 

Spencer said, "You have been staring at your coffee cup for nine minutes."

Derek spent half an hour at his desk before asking Hotch if he could take his paperwork home and do it there, so his teammates didn't see him this useless. 

His teammates had seen him dissociating several times, but they'd never seen him having a full blown panic attack. 

Derek Morgan was currently having a panic attack. He was on his bathroom floor at 10:33 AM on a Wednesday, sobbing. The world around him seemed too much, too loud, too bright, too many smells and tastes and textures. He just wanted calm. 

His hands shook and he went to grab his phone to play some music to calm him down but it was at 1% and he needed to plug it in, but his charger was not in the room. All that was in arm's length was a razor, a toothpaste bottle he'd knocked down, and four differently scented body soaps. 

He couldn't stop feeling hands on his body and hearing Buford's voice, and it was so disgusting, and Derek kind of wanted to stick knives in his ears. 

But instead, he just clapped his hands over his ears, rocking back and forth and crying and occasionally humming to get his voice out of his ears. 

1%. He could use the 1% to listen to music until it died. Later, he could plug it in.

The process was overwhelming so Derek braced his head between his knees and focused on the first step: pick up the phone.

He did, and he stared at it numbly, still feeling Buford’s hands on him as though it were yesterday. Half between panic and numbness, he floated in a state of terror and unreality.

He typed in his password, 7343, and opened Spotify, pressing play on the first song he saw, and he let the music take over the room, playing it at full volume.

Anything else would have overwhelmed him, but this drowned out the noise of the room and gave him something concrete to focus on other than the hands he could still feel on his body. 

After seven minutes, although he was still rocking back and forth, he’d calmed down greatly, and the music was helping.

It was helping until his phone died.

Derek sighed and buried his head in his arms, focusing on the next step. Pick up the phone and stand up. 

It took him a full minute of shouting at himself, but he did it, and, on autopilot, made his way to his room, plugging his phone in next to his bed and collapsing on it— specifically, on the corner by the wall, nested in an absurd amount of blankets.

When he heard his phone ding, he put his Spotify on shuffle and closed his eyes, leaning back on the wall and listening to music.

Somehow, despite the full-body shaking and loud music, he managed to fall asleep, and he woke up half an hour later, tears dried on his face, eyes puffy, and his nose runny— the same way he’d woken up after crying himself to sleep the night he almost tried to kill himself, back when he was 15.

He turned down his music, grabbed a notebook, and began to write.

**Author's Note:**

> follow me on tumblr @trans-zoe-murphy !!


End file.
